


If my life was winter, his love was summer.

by AngstAnonymous



Category: ATEEZ
Genre: ATEEZ - Freeform, AU, Abuse, Atiny - Freeform, Choi San - Freeform, College!AU, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Kang Yeosang - Freeform, M/M, MalexMale, Modelling, Romance, San - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragedy, Woosan, jung wooyoung - Freeform, withdrawals, wooyoung - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22151320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstAnonymous/pseuds/AngstAnonymous
Summary: After Kang Yeosang leaves, unable to care for his best friend any longer, Wooyoung feels like his world is falling apart. With loneliness creeping into his soul and a family that neglects him, Wooyoung becomes fixated on the idea that he is unlovable.At wits end and on the verge of ending it all, the last thing Wooyoung expects is for the infamous Choi San to save him.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	1. 겨울: The Beginning/Jung Wooyoung.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My Sister Britt](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=My+Sister+Britt).



> Trigger warning;
> 
> Implied abuse/mentions of abuse.  
> Drug use and addiction.  
> Suicidal thoughts/intentions.
> 
> Enjoy reading! (◕ᴗ◕✿)

* * *

_** Jung Wooyoung. ** _

Breath-taking by existence, popularity blossomed from the youth with little need to show himself off. In a matter of two years the dancer had tangled himself up with the likes of Kang Yeosang (head of the theatre and arts club 𝙖𝙣𝙙 the single most popular student on campus) and managed to score straight A’s throughout college, consistently sitting at the top of the honour roll— all without one instance of misdemeanour.

  
Alongside the Adonis-like countenance, Wooyoung breathed nothing but innocence and purity, rich mocha eyes coruscating in brilliance and cheeks dusted with the faintest rose blush.

𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨. It overflows from his heart like the downpour of a gushing waterfall, bearing itself upon individuals in a welcoming, natural embrace. 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙢𝙖. He holds enough of it that anyone that even has the chance to say ‘hello’ falls for him as fast as he can wave, or smile with such enrapturing beauty. Then there was his absolute resolute 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚, his love for truth and the belief that 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 is peaceful when order and control is about— and, to put it lightly, control was something he knew 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝  about.

To cut a long story short, Wooyoung had everyone wrapped around his finger, enough so that if he reached high enough, he could place the moon and the stars in the loneliest of night skies.

And in their eyes, Wooyoung was so utterly untouchable, so ethereal that people were afraid to get too close, afraid that perhaps what laid behind his perfect image was ugly. And perhaps they were right.

But the less they knew, the better.

* * *

_**  
  
[11:00pm, dormitory.] ** _

Wooyoung lay comfortably on his side, candy-floss and lilac locks messily splayed upon the rouge bedsheets, just above his roommate, Kang Yeosang.  It's cold, 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙤, and the crisp chill of the air bites at his exposed skin, sending shivers along his spinal column and leaving a childish pout to play about his roseate tiers. He breathes an irritated sigh, then shifts onto his back.

Wooyoung’s gaze is drawn to an illumination of sparse light that dances along the ceiling, casting shadows in it’s midst that flicker back and forth.

He grimaces.

Of course, unlike the nights where Yeosang agrees to sleep soundly once the lights shut off, he’s messing about on SNS— and no, the lowered volume didn’t mean Wooyoung 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣'𝙩 hear it.

"Yeosang, don't you have a rehearsal tomorrow?" His words echo amongst the silence, wisps of his words falling to the floor.

𝙉𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙚.

Rolling his eyes, Wooyoung slings his hand over the bed and waves it with incredulity. Kang Yeosang was a 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 of self-sabotage.

"Yeosang. Kang Yeosang. Yah." His words were laced with a certain spite now, an annoyance, irritancy.

Yeosang had a rehearsal at almost 4:00am in the morning, and he was 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 on his phone. He wasn't taking it seriously, it seemed, yet other people were relying on him doing well. Even if Wooyoung wasn't necessarily the 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩 worker, nor the most understanding, he knew when to buckle down and get to work.

If that wasn't enough, Wooyoung was already getting pissy these days.  He'd hit a brick wall. No muse = no choreography, and no choreography means a fail. And if he failed, well, Yeosang wouldn't hear the end of it.

Sliding out from beneath his sheets and hopping down from the ladder of the bunk-beds, the student allowed his feet to contact the verglas wooden floor. Wooyoung reached down and swiped the phone from Yeosang’s hands,

"Turn it off, okay? We both have to wake up tomorrow and you're—" Wooyoung hesitates. Amongst the douse of noir, the dancer spotted the glistening of tears that had streaked down the globes of Yeosang’s cheeks and collected at his jawline, lower lip quivering and chest heaving for air. 𝙒𝙖𝙨 𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜? 

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” Yeosang utters, sitting up slowly as he drags his sleeve across his face to dab away at the dampness of his cheeks. Wooyoung’s heart lurches. 

“I just— your arms, and the drugs and the bruises a-and your father—“ Yeosang chokes on his own stuttering breaths, unable to even string together a full sentence before it is interrupted by another painful hiccup that strangled his throat. “I can’t stand it anymore. I need to get away I just— I can’t keep seeing you hurting like this.”

“Yeosang— 𝙄'𝙢 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙚... I promise you. Don’t leave m-me alone here. 𝙋𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚.”

”Wooyoung, I know you’ll find someone else t-that’s strong enough to take care of you. But it’s making me worse too, and I— I just need to get away. I’m sorry.” Yeosang utters, words tinged with despair as he drags his gaze up to meet Wooyoung’s. “Forgive me.”

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙣. 

It can't even begin to describe what Wooyoung was feeling in that very moment.

His mind was a folly of darkening conceptions, poisoning his mind with toxicity, thoughts spilling over his sanity, filling every nook and cranny. His knees feel weak enough to buckle beneath him, to betray his already thin weight and leave him cold on the ground. His stomach is twisted in knots tighter than the noose Wooyoung had longed to find peace upon. His spine feels twisted and his limbs ache, his eyes feels heavy and tears are already creeping along his heated skin—

But he holds himself together. He keeps himself in one piece for the sake of Yeosang. To let him escape from the burden he was afraid of becoming.

So he submits.

”Okay. Okay, hyung. But promise you’ll call me a-and— and you won’t leave me behind forever. Please I— you know I can’t do this without you.” Wooyoung whispers, desperation dripping off every word as he plucks up his façade once more. One he never thought he’d have to use in front of Yeosang. “A-And— and promise me you won’t forget me.”

”𝙄 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧...”

* * *

**[10:00pm, Dormitory]**  
  


As the moonlight entwines with blanketing noir, shimmers of silver coat Wooyoung’s visage, as if glitter had rained down from the heavens just to settle upon him. Stars pierce the satin sky, and though the amber glow of streetlights almost dims them, they’re still evident against the stark black.  


Wooyoung had lay in bed for hours, focusing on the sounds outside of his window to redirect his mind onto 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 but the heroin that currently pumped through his bloodstream. Yeosang hadn’t called since he left, and as a year steadily flitted by the youth had perfected his plan to unite with the grim reaper.   
  


There’s a tangle of venom in torn pictures of the pair that litter the floor, shunted into a pile that rots in the corner of the bathroom, old polaroids that were once so cherished by the male that he had them neatly organised in date order, placed one by one in a scrapbook he had hand-bound and decorated. Music wafts throughout the rooms, some old Amy Winehouse track that he had put on repeat to draw out the raw truth of his emotion, the lyrics marring his mind and maintaining the melancholy he faced daily. But it’s concentrated now, it’s belittling him, it’s standing above him, it’s towering over him it’s a chain and an anchor that binds his ankles and forces him into the depths of the ocean to drown where  𝙣𝙤𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 will come to rescue him, and  𝙣𝙤𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 will remember him.

Eventually Wooyoung leaves his bed, a shadow of his former self, tangled within the sheets in the corner of his bedroom with nothing but a dim light flickering overhead. His gaze is fixated on the mirror, the shadows that swallow his face and nest within his visage, the skin pulled taut over his bones that jut out and create chiselled edges. He’s engrossed in his many imperfections, the scar upon his cheek, the dull of his eyes, the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore, the way he looks ready to  𝙙𝙞𝙚 , but forgive the foreshadowing.

“Yeosang would be ashamed of me...” He whispers, clutching the edge of his sleeve within his clammy palm and pulling it taut before using it to brush away the damp of his cheeks and the run of his nose. His stomach twists at the thought of it— at the thought of Yeosang’s face when he saw that he was about to take  drugs again . All in an attempt to feel the numbness he once fought away.   


Class A, Class B, Class C— metal sheets of pills and clear bags of powdery dust and petit bottles of varying liquids and every syringe available. None of it made sense to the student, but it didn’t need to. He wanted to feel at peace with himself, to feel  𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙚 when all else was failing him. To feel like he was floating atop cloud nine; airy, light and dreamy. To make his head spin, and the tips of his fingertips dance with sparks of electricity.

He isn't sure what he grabs at the time (perhaps a variant of ecstasy), but it sits pretty upon his tongue anyway, dissolving into his tastebuds. It's sweet like sugar, and gives him a high all the same. But it’s not enough to drown the depression. So he doesn’t stop there, no— he pops every pill out of the metal sleeve and cups them in his hands, shakily bringing them up to his pallor tiers before throwing them all back and feeling them force their way down his throat. The powder, he snorts, just like he always did when he was hiding away in some sweaty club, and as for the syringes, he tries one out, manages to sheath the needle beneath his skin and push some of the sickly crimson liquid into his blood but it feels  𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜 , so he removes it with haste and drops the tricksy thing into the basin, watching it shatter and fall away.

After a few fleeting thoughts of regret, Wooyoung sinks himself to the dampened floor, holding his stomach and gazing at a blank space upon the wall that once held Yeosang’s photograph.   
  


Time crawls slowly, and Wooyoung begins his whirlwind of a night by pulling a receipt from his pocket and scrawling some sort of incoherent message on the back.

[𝘐𝘧 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘪𝘴: 150699. 

𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘠𝘦𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 911.]

Once finished, he slides the receipt over the floor and nearer to the locked door. He doesn’t quite feel it at first, but maybe a minute later, his head feels like it’s being crushed by his father’s hands again, slowly caving in and leaving his brain to swell and crimson to come pouring out of the cracks. There’s a voice in the back of his head begging him to get help, crying and  𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 and pleading for him to just 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙪𝙥 , to move his legs and find  𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 to call an ambulance. To save himself from the cold grasp of death.

He didn’t mean to hurt himself.

Tonight, he wanted to feel serenity. He wanted to feel numb. He wanted to live life for 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙 without feeling the urge to tear away his skin until he’s a mass of moving muscle and leaking out sanguine— to just feel  𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚 . Instead, he became autumn leaves, crumbled within Yeosang’s palm and flying away in the wind. He became the red upon his canvas of pastels, threatening to ruin everything he had crafted. He became the blackened of his family, the outcast, the  𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙪𝙧𝙚 .

And he was sick of it.

So he submits. He lays himself out on the verglas tiles of his bathroom floor, he rests his head down and sobs. He sobs, and sobs, and cries and whimpers and moans and groans because the  𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣 . The pain is fucking unbearable. It were as if someone had poured acid into a laceration upon his body, let it simmer away and combine with his blood— watched it melt his organs one by one until he was nothing but a soup of guts and human waste. His ribs feel like they’re tearing out of his skin and his throat burns up as though he had swallowed fire itself. Everything 𝙞𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙨 , but he can’t do a thing to stop it. 

When he feels his body giving out, eyes surrendering to the black that rained down over his vision and tugged his lids to a close, he feels warmth trickle down his countenance. When he brushes it away with the heel of his wrist, he sees red, and he can’t do anything but whimper out.

“H-Help.”


	2. 봄: The Saviour/Choi San.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kicked out of his previous college after his dirty little secret was uncovered, rising model Choi San is forced to enrol elsewhere.
> 
> When he finds his new room-mate laying on the bathroom floor with blood spattered lips and a pallor complexion— ‘shock’ doesn’t quite express how he feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the story will get more interesting here. Thank you for sticking with me until now!! ꨄ

Choi San arrives at his new campus in the late hours of the morning, the sunlight holding itself just high enough in the sky to cast its aureate, godly light. The skies drizzle amber hues and twines amongst dusty salmon— clouds paint the skies as though god had sprinkled cotton throughout the atmosphere, and the golden streaks brush themselves through the young models tresses, accentuating the ruffles of cherry highlights throughout. He paces down the beat of the bustling Seoul streets, eyes flickering over every detail with some bout of caution. He almost feels like something is wrong— like something is falling apart, just like it always does. 

Dropping his gaze to the floor momentarily, his hand began to quiver and freeze over, ears suddenly ringing with alarm and anxiety, heart stuttering and leaping about his ribcage with merciless paranoia. It came and went, the fear that people were out to hurt him, to attack him and psycho-analyse him, but what scared him the most was the over-arching fear that perhaps the people walking the streets around him 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙗𝙚𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜; that perhaps the arrogant blonde across the street knew of his secrets, the ugly truth he’d desperately hide behind a modest and chaste demeanour— that maybe she could see just how much he'd fallen apart, how he'd fallen so far from grace it was impossible to get back to any form of respect. It was irrational, to think that she had even seen him when every morsel of his life had been devoured and hidden by his agent, as well as the ‘San’ everyone once thought they knew.

"𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙜𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙨𝙤𝙣. 𝙔𝙤𝙪'𝙫𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙪𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙟𝙤𝙗... 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙠𝙖𝙮?" 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺, 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘭’𝙨, 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘚𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥. 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳? 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘢'𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥, 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 '𝘦𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢', 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯? 

"𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙚. 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩'𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙮 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙜𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙚. 𝙄'𝙢 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙚." 𝘚𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘵𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘵, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘴. "𝙄'𝙢 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙚. 𝙊𝙠𝙖𝙮? 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙟𝙤𝙗 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙥𝙖𝙮, 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙩 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙨. 𝙎𝙤 𝙡𝙖𝙮 𝙤𝙛𝙛."

Her words echo throughout his mind and intrude upon his calm demeanour. What would it have cost him to tell the truth? To escape the situation there and then— was his pride really worth so much?

In those few seconds, San focuses upon the shake of his hands with tawny orbs wide and frantic. But as quickly as it came, as much as the fear had suffocated him, San was able to gasp in a breath of reality and bring himself back to a logical frame of mind, one that was rational and carefully considered. 

All he had to do was remember what his agent had once told him— “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙖 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙪𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚."

Before he even reaches his new dormitory,San is tugging his phone from his pocket and shaking it loose. The first person that pops into his mind was Yeosang. Was he okay? Had he gotten himself into trouble? Was that why his instincts were running wild? Dialling his number, the male frowns a little, stomach twisting as he thinks over every little possibility.

“Hey... can I just— can I ask you something?” San mutters, pressing the phone between his shoulder and jaw to shake the sweat from his hands. “Why did you leave this place so urgently...?”

“Oh.” Yeosang closes his eyes, releasing a sigh. “My friend that lives there... Wooyoung? I was really worried about him. He just became too much to handle, I guess. He uh— he had a lot of problems.”

𝙊𝙝 . 

Though San bites his tongue, part of him wants to scream at Yeosang then and there. Perhaps it was because he’d been in a similar situation to this ‘Wooyoung’ they spoke of, when sinking felt easier than swimming.

San recalled pushing everyone away out of fear that he was a burden, isolating himself until there was nobody left— but what 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩? What hurt was when they left without even trying to ease his mind, without clipping the wings of his demons and cradling him close. Without simply telling him they cared, telling him they loved him or  𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 him around. Everyone walked away from him and left him in the dust. He didn’t wish that upon anyone. Not even his enemies.

“Right.” San speaks bluntly, shifting his footing to reach into his pocket and fish out the freshly cut keys he’d received. “Well... i’m hanging up, okay? Gotta unpack my things. Talk later, mm?”

“Mhm.”

When the line falls flat, San shoves his phone into his back pocket and dumps his collection of bags at his feet. Though he wasn’t certain of his new room-mate’s condition, the young model was still more than excited to meet him. His previous roommates ended up with the ‘best friend’ label in a matter of days, which meant stealing from the fridge went unpunished, and drinking until midnight was celebrated. Despite his somewhat cold and sharp appearance, San carried his heart as if it were gold, and he shared it both equally and generously. 

Before unlocking the door, San pats down his clothing and tugs at the strings of his noir hoodie, heart throbbing in his chest with unmatched anxiety. As always, he was concerned with his appearance— the last thing he wanted to do was scare his new roommate away— and besides, he was a  𝙢𝙤𝙙𝙚𝙡 . In his industry, appearance is  𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 .

Wandering into the dimly lit dorm-room, the first thing San does is peer about, fingertips fumbling over the walls to find the light switch.

“Hello?” He chimes curiously, a pout forming upon his roseate tiers. “I don’t get a house-warming party?”

Silence.

“...I’ll take that as a fat no.” With the flick of a switch, light floods the room, forcing the male to quickly shield his eyes. The scent of alcohol lingers in the air.

The room is cold, yet even though there’s a winter bite in the verglas air, heat flares in his chest every time he breathes. On either side of his pounding heart, between his pectorals and reaching to the top of his collar, there is a clambering, freezing, burning ache that moves— bunches in his throat and forces him to try and swallow it down. Clamping his teeth down into his lower lip, San hangs his head. Something wasn’t right.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡. 

Everything remained silent within, no hum of a heater, birds tweeting outside harmoniously, no sway of trees, bout of wind or leaves rustling in the breeze. Not even a voice ricocheted about the walls of the apartment he resided within. Everything lay dormant.

“Is anyone in here?” San calls out, feet dragging him closer and closer to the locked bathroom door before he’s twining his fingers around the handle and twisting. It doesn’t open. “Uhm— if you’re in there, i’m your new roommate San. Can you hear me?”

Moments pass by, and still  𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 .

The worry is instantaneous, rushing over his shivering body with a a deep-seated fear. Yeosang had said Wooyoung had ‘problems’. And maybe he was overthinking, maybe he was getting too involved too fast but the laboured breathing behind the door belongs to  𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 and he isn’t about to let them get hurt when he can do something about it. 

“𝙋𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙗𝙚 𝙤𝙠𝙖𝙮...” San mutters under his breath anxiously, disbelieving of the situation he’d encountered. Maybe it was irrational, but at that point in time, San had no idea if Wooyoung was 𝙨𝙖𝙛𝙚. Whether he’d taken a handful of pills, or drunk too much liquor, or cut himself deep enough to reveal bone— Wooyoung could be 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩, and San wasn’t going to let him go down easy. 

Taking a couple steps back, the young model aligns his shoulder with the door before charging at the weak slab of wood. It takes maybe two attempts before the lock snaps off (cheap piece of crap), and he’s in the apartment staring Wooyoung right in the eyes. 

* * *

Wooyoung is crumbling, like an autumn leaf clasped within curled fists he withers away effortlessly into fragments of a former self. He is the embers of a once roaring fire,tumbling against the harrowing winds and flitting against the midnight's embrace, searching for solace amongst lost bewilder. He is the rip and fray of every edge upon masterpieces, and he is the spilt ink upon every magnum opus. Yeosang was everything that kept Wooyoung together, and the sole reason he fell apart.

San stares in horror.

His gaze falls down to the grotesque way crimson dribbled from Wooyoung’s lips and nose. The triumphant march of bruises along his arms alongside thin cuts in a neat formation. The bitter calm of the sink overflowing onto the floor, the tap trickling gently and dancing upon the surface as the two meet. 

But what scarred him most, was how limp Wooyoung had become. How his head would lull back, exposing his vein latticed neck, skin a grim shade of violet. How his arms hung limply under the squeeze of his embrace. How his lips parted for the oxygen he could barely drag into his lungs. How his whole body, drenched by the growing puddle of tap-water, was unmoving— a collection of loose ends and untied knots. 

"Wooyoung—" The name leaps out of San’s throat similar to a yelp, gaze debating between the trembling the phone that stuck out of his pocket and the terrified looking male upon the floor.

"Wooyoung, i-it's ok— it’s okay just calm down. I’ll help you." 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙘. "Come on, Wooyoung, we'll get you out of here, alright? Just listen to my v-voice it's going to be fine."

San lowers himself enough to cradle Wooyoung in his arms like that of a newborn baby, shushing into his ear and carefully rubbing his back, running his palms along the younger's hair. It's going to be fine, he tells Wooyoung, desperately, so that he doesn't lose hope. It's ok, he promises, wishing for Wooyoung to believe him.

Wooyoung struggled to concentrate, but his stare remains upon the model, distracting himself from the agonising pain that continuously shot up through his spinal chord. He didn't want anyone to see him like this, weak, frail, dependant but— he had no choice. 

As he’s pulled into San’s lap, a strangled scream of pain leaves his lips, the model’s hands carelessly moving over the back he felt was falling apart, over his fragile skin and muscles that burned intensely. 

He reaches up to grab onto  𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 ,  𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 that would help him get through the unbearable burn of his body - and upon taking a fistful of San’s shirt, he focused his eyes in on the models.

He got lost there. He wandered away from his pain for just a few fleeting moments as he became distracted by what always brought him comfort - the eyes of someone that  𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙 . And as blood slowly trickles from his nose and tarnishes his pale skin, his mouth became coated in the blood that had flooded his lungs.

Breathing shuddering and stuttered, Wooyoung held onto San until the end, until his eyes fell back into his skull and his lids fell heavy. 

Then he was limp in San’s arms. Finally relieved from the throbbing pain that continued to taunt him.

Unconscious and afraid, Wooyoung entrusts himself wholly to the stranger before him,  𝙥𝙧𝙖𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 deep down that maybe he’d save him.

* * *

With the absence of comfort and protection, the cotton blanket draping asheltered baby’s fragile body, the loving embrace of a long passed mother, the childish bouts of laughter that came kicking off of young tiers of rose, the way the silent night of noir could wrap and twine about Wooyoung’s body, twinkling stars clinging to his skin and making home in every crevice— without Yeosang. Without his saving grace, his embodiment of jubilance and joy, without his long nights of video games and sickly sweet candies that stuck in his hair in the morning, the same ones that Yeosang had to scrub out in the cramped shower floor of his dorm room. Without the love and comfort of what he’d never shy from calling his best friend— he didn’t know what to do.

He was lost.

Sinking down into the murky depths of a never-ending ocean, ankles shackled with iron links and shrieking blocks of cement, dragging and dragging and pulling and yanking him down to the grips of his demons. The ones that told him to suck on his nicotine sticks and destroy his swollen lungs, the ones that found peace in coke lines that dusted the floor, grains he had forgotten to cut rising up his nasal passage only to wither his skin. The same demons that told him all those years back that it was  𝙤𝙠𝙖𝙮 to die for those that you love. The same demons that told him death was better than the venomous sting that had buried itself into his aorta, tightening his chest and causing it to break apart  𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙡𝙮 . 

Everything hurt.

Salmon stroked tresses, styled like two waves had parted and swept along a coastline of golden skin. Softened brown globes, brushed with settling shadows that sink into his visage and bore into his skull. He wore a hospital gown now, faded, aegean robes littered with tape and strung with wires, and a white bandage bound about his wrist. Upon his neck, settled between his protruding collarbones is the necklace San had left for him, taped into the back of his leather bound notebook with a single note.

[𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮! 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚’𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙡𝙚𝙨. 

𝙄 𝙢𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙪𝙥, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙚𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚. 𝙒𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙞𝙩, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙞’𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙞𝙩. 𝙂𝙚𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙤𝙠𝙖𝙮? 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙨𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙧, 𝙎𝙖𝙣 (𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣)!! ☻] 

Almost as though it were a dog-tag, the necklace lay upon his body in memorial— for the male was half-dead already. Many of the nurses were muttering about the unlikely possibility he’ll live, about what a  𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘦 it was that he would die young.

If Wooyoung’s vision weren't so blurred he'd say he was fine, that his incredibly sickly toned skin was normal, that it still had that golden, aureate hue— completely ignoring that there’s a greyish tone beneath it, as if he were already decaying upon the table. 

Memories of that morning hit him like a brick.

As oxygen is forced into his lungs by hefty piles of machinery, and Wooyoung attempts to shift his brittle bones, they flood back to him and pump throughout his mind with enough intrusion to have his eyes pry themselves open and flood with tears all over.

“S-San..." Wooyoung utters out his name as if it were truly life or death, mustering up all the strength he has in his body just to shove himself up further against the cushions.

"Please can you c-contact San. The man that was with me?” Even at this point, his hands still remain flat against the necklace around his neck, as if they were supposed to be there, like some sort of treatment he had no idea he was receiving. In some ways, the feeling of the metal within his hand helps. It brings him comfort.

Doctors will be there any minute, and Wooyoung knows that all too well, but he wanted to see the man that saved him before any final decision was made about his health, before any doctor decided he needed an emergency operation or some sort of expensive 'aid'. 

Because right then, San was all he had. 

Even if their encounter was brief and panicked— Choi San was the first to care since Yeosang’s disappearance. So sue him if he gets clingy.

It isn’t long before the model enters the hospital room breathlessly, skin coated in a thin layer of sweat, glistening under the warm amber lights. He’d just returned from an important ‘modelling’ shoot, one that involved film over photography. 

“Wooyoung—“ He chimes breathlessly, a simper coating his lips as he jogs over to grasp his hand, dipping his head into a bow. “How’re you feeling...? I stayed with you all night but— my agent called an hour ago. M’sorry I wasn’t here.” 

“It’s fine...” Wooyoung mutters with a softened tone, affectionate gaze locked with the models. “Thank you. F-For saving me. I feel a bit better now, but the doctors said I have to stay for a few nights until i’m stabilised.”

“Ah, well in that case we’ll have a party here. To new beginnings, roommates and friends.” A grin spreads upon San’s countenance as he speaks with a caring lilt. Lifting the mood wasn’t easy after one of his infamous shoots— but Wooyoung was his priority. He could take care of himself later. “I can buy us takeaway tonight from the restaurant down the road, and we can talk about whatever, mm?”

“Okay... but can I— can I ask you something?” 

“Mm, shoot.”

“I uhm... under the floor board in the bathroom. Just by the sink. Can you open it up and just get rid of e-everything that’s under there. Please?” Wooyoung pleads, using whatever strength he has left to squeeze San’s hand. “Everything bad is under there.”

Without saying much, San simply nods in agreement. He’d been told by the doctors about the multitude of different drugs that pulsed through his veins, the heroin, cocaine, meow, ecstasy— it wasn’t hard to imagine what was under the floorboards, what Wooyoung was hiding away— but either way, San was proud of Wooyoung for being brave enough to let it all go.

“It’s okay.” He whispers into the back of Wooyoung’s hand. “I’ve got you now, mm? We’ve got each other’s backs.”

“You promise?”

“𝙄 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚, 𝙒𝙤𝙤𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙜.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading until here! 
> 
> I will try to upload frequently as time allows! Leave a comment to cheer me on or give me a kudos to show appreciation pls (✿◕‿◕)


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